


The Symphony in Their Veins

by hobbit_hedgehog



Series: Statement Begins OC Fiction [1]
Category: Statement Begins (TMA OC Server)
Genre: Arson, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Gen, Miscarriage, Misgendering, Murder, OC Lore - Freeform, Suicide Attempt, TMA OC, domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:14:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23709742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbit_hedgehog/pseuds/hobbit_hedgehog
Summary: HEED THE CONTENT WARNINGS IN THE TAGSAinsley McKinnon ruminates on the events leading to their connection to their Entity and eventual hire at an academic institute in London.A The Magnus Archives OC lore story.
Series: Statement Begins OC Fiction [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1707610
Kudos: 2





	The Symphony in Their Veins

**Author's Note:**

> Hey folks, this is something a little different. I am a part of a Discord server called Statement Begins, which is a cosplay and RP server dedicated to OCs for the podcast The Magnus Archives (TMA). I've written a few pieces for some of my OCs in the server and decided to share them here on AO3. I have elected not to tag this for The Magnus Archives as I don't want it to show up in the main tag. Instead, I have tagged it with the name of the server in order to establish it as a part of our server's timeline, which deviates from the original storyline around season 3 of the podcast.
> 
> For those of you who aren't familiar with The Magnus Archives, it's a horror audio drama set in the fictional Magnus Institute in London with the main character Jonathan Sims recording statements of paranormal happenings as a part of his job as the Head Archivist. I would describe The Magnus Archives as unsettling and creepy rather than scary, but it has its moments of horror and violence that might be upsetting to some people. This particular story is about my character Ainsley McKinnon, who works as the head of the research department for The Magnus Institute. This story is steeped in Slaughter-typical violence and manipulation, and is, in a term, heavy. Please mind the content warnings in the tags if you choose to read this one.

Shit had, for lack of a better phrase, gone sideways. Ainsley wasn’t sure who to blame--Themselves, for not being fast enough? Elias, for the shitty intel? Those assholes from the Stranger, for existing in the first place?--but they were coming back to Chelsea beaten and bruised on a stolen motorbike. Ainsley had been sent to find a Leitner, but all they had found was a nest of sentient mannequins with a mean streak to rival Ainsley’s. They had gotten the drop on them, but Ainsley was the one still standing. They were very good at making sure they were the one still standing. The severed mannequin hand in Ainsley’s bag was proof enough.

_ The hum of violence is ever-present in Ainsley’s blood, an underlying bass line that thrums to the beat of their heart, consistent in its tempo. Just noticeable enough to remind Ainsley of the god they’ll serve for the rest of their days. _

Elias had been right about one thing, there had been something up in Wales, but it certainly wasn’t a Leitner to go along with the one Ainsley had taken from Phoebe Davies. No, the Stranger was up to something, and the little trap Ainsley had sprung certainly hadn’t been for them. Ainsley had the nagging suspicion that Elias had Known that. Why else would he have sent Ainsley to do Louis’s job?

_ Punishment for the interns. Punishment for not following orders like the good little soldier you should be. _

Ainsley’s eyes narrowed. The beginning notes of a melody joined the bass line in their blood, goading Ainsley for their inherent weakness. They swerved off to the side of the road, rocks kicking up behind the bike as Ainsley guided it to a halt. They ripped the stolen helmet from their head and chucked it as hard as they could. The black helmet vanished into the dark night, but Ainsley could hear it crashland in the nearby field. It’s not enough, it’ll never be enough. Ainsley wants - no, needs - to hurt, to make something - someone - hurt. Anything to satiate the rage that is reaching a crescendo under their skin, in their mind, in their blood.

_ Ainsley keeps an assembly of mementos inside their top desk drawer. The knife they confiscated from Michael, a puzzle box that Ainsley has solved countless times, some polaroids of university friends Ainsley hadn't seen in years, of family members that either assume Ainsley’s still in prison or assume they’re dead. There's one of Ainsley, a candid picture of them smoking a cigarette on the front steps of some government building in Edinburgh, before the graying hair, before the scars, all smiles and mischief. The eyes have been scratched out in every picture. The only photo that hadn't been touched is of a tall woman with auburn hair the same shade as Ainsley's had been. Sarah McKinnon-Stevenson.  _

_ Ainsley had been twenty two when Sarah and Brian had gotten married. According to everyone who knew Sarah and Brian, it was a classic love story brought to life. Childhood sweethearts who seperated for uni, only for Brian to transfer in his third year to be with Sarah. They had lived together for a few years after that until Brian finally asked Sarah to marry him. Naturally, Sarah had said yes. Ainsley had been her Person of Honor, despite Brian’s family’s protestations that it should have gone to Brian’s sister, Abigail. Sarah had refused to budge. Ainsley was her sibling, her best friend in the whole world. She would never choose someone else over Ainsley. She did her best to keep the truth about the matter from Ainsley. She didn’t have to, Ainsley knew it from the way Moira and Ryan Stevenson called them “she”. _

_ Ainsley first felt the Slaughter’s influence the first time Sarah came to one of their concerts with a black eye. Ainsley knew who had done it the moment they saw it; the rage sliced through their mind, a discordant tritone throwing off the rest of the symphony. Something that could be recovered from, but left a lasting impression. They tried to call the police, but Sarah talked them out of it. It was an accident, after all, he didn’t mean anything by it. He’s had a hard time at work recently. They were going to couples’ therapy, it was his suggestion, even. Sarah was fine. Ainsley started seeing Sarah less after that. The symphony began to change. _

_ After two years of wedded bliss, Brian and Sarah announced that little baby McKinnon-Stevenson was on the way. They were secretive about the whole thing, just like everything else in their lives. Ainsley was more than halfway to a Masters degree in History and was in several bands - drummers are always in high demand - and declined the offer to be a Godparent. Why would they bother being a Godparent to a child they’ll rarely get to see anyway? Ainsley knew their rejection hurt Sarah. It hurt them to say no. _

_ November 18th. Ainsley would never forget that date. Ainsley’s latest failed band was getting ready to play their last show when Ainsley got the call from their mom. Sarah was in the hospital. Drug overdose. Intentional. The baby didn’t make it. _

_ Flashes of memory are all Ainsley ever had to go on when remembering that night. One of their bandmates - Mika - hailing a cab. The pain in their eyes as they sprinted from the cold night into the flourescent lights of the hospital. The smell of sterile equipment, the squeak of gurneys, the beeps of the EKG. Liam and Patricia McKinnon holding each other close as they sobbed. The overwhelming nausea of finally seeing their sister, smaller than they had ever seen her before, pale and drawn on the hospital bed. The noticeable absence of Brian. The grief, the increasing tempo in their veins telling them to killkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkill _ **_KILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILL_ ** _ - _

_ The McKinnon family got their answers days later, when Sarah’s finally lucid enough to talk to her grieving family. It started with the shouting matches over the smallest things and the slamming doors shortly after their honeymoon. Soon it was smashed plates and broken trinkets. Soon it was black eyes and bloody noses. Sarah had known that she should have left after the first broken plate. She never should have stayed, but Moira and Ryan were so nice to her. And Brian always apologized, always offered to do better for her. So she stayed. And then she got pregnant, and she was so scared, but she stayed because here was her light at the end of the tunnel. And then she caught him with a university student interning at his accounting firm. She had left to get some shopping done. They had been on their lunch breaks. Sarah had kicked Brian out. Hours later she overdosed. He was with his family while Sarah had been alone. _

_ “Ainsley, where are you going?” _

_ Killkillkillkillkillkillkillkill- _

_ “To find that cunt Brian and to make him pay for what he’s done to my sister.” _

_ Killkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkill- _

_ “Ainsley, you will do no such thing! When your sister’s better we’ll-.” _

_ Killkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkill- _

_ “We’ll what, Ma? Get a divorce lawyer? Call the cops on him? He spent two years beating the shit out of Sarah and we didn’t do anything! We can do something now, I can do something now, I-.” _

_ Killkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkill- _

_   
_ _ “Ainsley, don’t be selfish. You don’t need to do anything other than be here for Sarah. She needs her sibling, not revenge.” _

_ KillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILL-  _

_   
_ _ “How do you know what she needs, Da? If we had known what she needed, she wouldn’t be here in the first place!” _

**_KILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILL-_ **

_   
_ _ “Ainsley McKinnon, that’s enough!” _

_ Ainsley didn’t remember punching the mirror. They remembered the nurse glaring at them as they pulled glass from their knuckles. Ainsley didn’t care, they were planning. _

_ November 23rd. Ainsley could never forget that date. They had stalked the house for hours, waiting for everyone to be home. Once night fell, they made their move. It was easy enough to break in. The lock on the kitchen door was old, easy to pick. Ainsley hadn’t brought a weapon with them. They didn’t need to, Moira prided herself on her cooking and had knives to spare. They plucked the butcher’s knife and the largest cooking knife they could find and made their way further into the house.  _

_ At age 19, Abigail Stevenson was the first to go. Small, a photography student. A hand over her nose and mouth, a quick slice across her throat was all it took. She never stood a chance.  _

_ Moira Stevenson, aged 55, was next. She had gotten up to get a glass of water. Grabbed from behind as she passed her daughter’s room. Upon future reflection, seven stab wounds to the face and chest had been excessive. _

_ Ryan Stevenson had been a little more difficult to kill, despite being 62. He had managed to turn the knife back on Ainsley, giving them the scar on their left cheek. When the police had found him in his bed with the butcher knife next to him, his head had nearly been decapitated. _

_ Of all the people Ainsley has killed, Brian’s death is the only one to make them feel genuinely sick when they think about it. The only thing they allow themselves to remember is the first stab and the screams of mercy. _

_ Ainsley hadn’t taken any trophies, save for a tiny puzzle box that Brian had on his nightstand. They had solved it and read the note inside by the time the police found them bloodstained and sleep deprived in their apartment. They didn’t resist as the police led them away in handcuffs. The symphony hadn’t gone away, it was still humming just under their skin. _

_ Their family didn’t come to see them in jail. There were no phone calls, no visits, no lawyers. Ainsley had expected a visit, one last send off before they completely disowned Ainsley. It never came. The Devil paid Ainsley a visit instead. _

_ “Well, you’re a lot shorter than I had anticipated, but I suppose that looks aren’t everything.” _

_ “Who the fuck are you?” _

_ “Elias Bouchard, Head of the Magnus Institute.” _

_ “So not a lawyer then.” _

_ “No-.” _

_ “Then we’re done here.” _ _   
  
_

_ “Not so fast. I’m here to make you an offer.” _

_ “Not much bargaining I can do in here, is there?” _

_ “Hear me out. I can offer you a way out of this. I pull a few strings, and you'll never spend another day in prison.” _

_ “What's the catch?”  _

_ “You’ll come work for me at the Institute. I have an opening in the Research department, and you’d fit in quite nicely.”  _

_ “I don’t even have a Master’s degree.” _ _   
_ _   
_ __ “Formal qualifications aren’t everything, and I have a need for someone with your particular skill set.” 

_ Sounds too good to be true. What's the real catch?”  _

_ Ainsley didn’t like the way Elias chuckled. They still don’t. Elias chuckled in a way that signaled imminent danger. A warning that the storm was about to hit shore. That the pin was coming to stick their wings to the board. _

_ “Perceptive. It's bad luck that the Slaughter got to you first, you'd make an excellent Beholder.” _

_ “I don't understand.” _

_ Another chuckle, the glass coming down to trap them in the display case for the rest of their life. _

_ “You will. In time.” _

_ Elias had given Ainsley a day to settle their affairs in Edinburgh before joining him in Chelsea. Ainsley gave themselves six hours. Their flat had been left untouched in the several months they were tied up in the legal system, a thick layer of dust had settled over everything. Their parents must have pulled from Ainsley’s savings to pay their rent. One last nice act. Ainsley didn’t take much from the flat - their leather jacket, some of their favorite shirts and jeans, a handful of photographs that they’d later gouge the eyes out of, and the puzzle box. They torched the flat as they left. No one ever came for them. _

_ Ainsley knew that their freedom was conditional. Bouchard’s thinly veiled threats kept Ainsley in line, kept them going on research missions that ended in kidnapping people touched by other entities, in torturing them for information, in more violence, more bloodlust, more murder. After a while, they stopped drinking themselves silly after each mission. Steadily, they began to take pride in their work, the symphony in their veins becoming less discordant with each swing of their rebar. By the time a vampire gave them the scar on their right cheek, they had learned to laugh again. Learned how to keep time with the constant song that had become their existence. _

_ Then the Lukas Murder Party happened. Ainsley hadn’t been in attendance, having been chasing a research lead Then the promotion came, and all the shit that went with it. No matter what Ainsley did to keep the department in check, they could feel everything falling apart, their safety net unraveling under fingers as they plummeted closer to the edge and the abyss beyond. They were drowning, they were drowning and none of their usual methods of survival were going to save them. _

_ “I’m only going to tell you this once. I don’t have time to keep an eye on you and your interns. Keep them in check, or I’ll revoke your employment. There are enough unsolved murders that can easily be traced back to you. You’ll be right back at square one-” _

_ Ainsley wasn’t scared of much. The look Bouchard gave them would haunt them for the rest of their life. _

_ “-with a significant disadvantage.” _

The pain finally hit Ainsley after they successfully smashed the head and taillights of the bike. Their bruised collarbone had been screaming in protest with each swing. The wound on their forehead had opened at some point and their bangs were sticking to their forehead. Ainsley collapsed against the damaged bike, their whole body throbbing as the symphony _dimiundoed_. Their breath came in ragged pants and alone on the side of a quiet country road, Ainsley McKinnon screamed.


End file.
